Oil and Vignettes
by Sakon76
Summary: Unrelated short stories in various Transformers universes. New: G1 - Everyone has a bad hair day now and again. Even giant alien robots.
1. G1: Telepath

The Silent Telepath  
by K. Stonham  
first released 28th May 2008

Jazz was like a field of white noise. He was one of the few beings Blaster knew who didn't constantly have a whispering cloud of thoughts around him, and it made the laid-back saboteur's presence soothing. Over time he'd discovered they had a mutual love of music, which gave him an excuse to hang around Jazz more and more, just shooting the breeze and discussing style, range, and emotion... all the things that made music worth listening to. Once in a while the black-and-white gave him a pointed, ironic lopsided grin that seemed to say he knew why Blaster sought out his company... but if those were actually his thoughts, Blaster couldn't hear them and Jazz never voiced them.

Maybe it was an Special Ops thing. Mirage and Bumblebee, while not running as silent as Jazz, were also quieter than the average 'Bot. Blaster wondered what kind of training they'd got that muted their presence to a telepath, and why the slag the army hadn't mandated it for everyone. Or maybe it was just something about the mindset required for Special Ops that made their thoughts harder to hear. Whatever it was, Blaster was grateful for it.

Everyone else, from Optimus down to Gears down to the humans, thought loud. He knew they couldn't help it--Pit, they didn't even know they were doing it!--but it still ended up stressing his processors and leaving him longing for the distant cool of the deep-space communications station he'd been designed to run. Just himself and his crew catching the waves and the vibes, transmitting messages onward... a little steel and crystal nest floating among the stars. He really envied Cosmos his stellar patrols some days when tensions were high and tempers spiked sharp into his CPU. Solid walls didn't make a difference, only distance, and while his quarters were as far away from everyone else's as they could get, even sleeping with his cassettes' warm bodies piled around him couldn't block out the mental noise of his shipmates.

Ratchet had a constant supply of pain blockers for him and kept a careful eye on his rate of self-medication, which Blaster was none too easy about either. He'd heard far too many bad stories of crowded Comm 'bots getting addicted to stims and he preferred the pain to losing himself that way.

Not that it was common knowledge, he admitted. Most 'bots didn't even realize that he and Soundwave were any different than they were. He was the music-loving communications officer, and Soundwave held the same rank under Megatron, with the added curse of being the tyrant's third-in-command. It was funny in a way, but most Autobots were more scared of being at Soundwave's mercy than they were of Megatron or Starscream. Meggie and Screamer, they reasoned, could only torture and kill them. _Soundwave_ could pick their thoughts out of their head, make them into traitors, and potentially reprogram them without moving a servo.

Blaster supposed he should be glad that it didn't occur to his fellow Autobots that he'd been made for the same purpose as Soundwave and had the same abilities. Slightly more, possibly; he was a newer model than the midnight blue Decepticon. But to balance that out, being older, Soundwave had more helper cassettes than Blaster.

They'd met one another before, long ago in the depths of space, twisting cosmic strings that sang in the deep musical silence of the universe. He'd known Soundwave's insubstantial touch and rhythm then, the same as they'd both known scores of others who inhabited the void with only sound to sustain them. All those voices were silent now, long gone and slaughtered. He and Soundwave were the last two of their kind.

Blaster _loathed_ his Decepticon counterpart and knew the feeling to be mutual. Soundwave had taken what was pure, something that had sung since the beginning of time, and twisted it, made it scream. For that, and for the betrayal of their fellow Communicators, Blaster could never, ever forgive him.

He'd paid attention to the vibrations of space, and as he'd felt them tuning sour he'd done what no Communicator should ever do: abandoned his post. He'd run ahead of the wave of Decepticon slaughter all the way back to Cybertron, him and his small crew, and upon arrival nearly died regardless, going into stasis from the sheer pressure of so many minds, the unlimited volume of chaos shrieking into his processor.

But he'd been found--luckily by the Autobots--and Ratchet had managed to drug him deep enough that he could recover. By the time he'd been stable enough to give his report it had been unnecessary. For the first time in recorded history, the stars beyond Cybertron were silent. He'd wanted to go back into shock, to lament the total loss of his kind, but there was something inside him that wouldn't let him. Instead, Blaster had shored himself up, consulted briefly with his cassettes, and offered his services to the Autobots.

Optimus Prime himself had accepted the offer, and jumped him straight into officer ranks. It had been rough for a while; there were plenty who had been in line for a promotion, and he was a raw newcomer. But he and his crew had proved themselves, knowing their way around comm systems, tricks, and protocol as easy as freefall, and eventually (with the help of a few rounds of highgrade) the resentment had eased.

Still, Blaster kept his secrets and the command structure kept them with him. It wouldn't do good to let everyone know there was a telepath in their ranks. The other officers knew, of course, and eventually they'd all built up enough trust in him that their thoughts didn't start fluttering every time he was in the room. There was an unspoken agreement that he kept a listen out for anything that might be real trouble among the ranks and turned the information over to whoever was appropriate, usually Ratchet or Jazz. Red Alert didn't approve, but then Red didn't trust anyone except himself and Inferno.

Sometimes still, while on comm duty and dreaming of the plans Hoist and Grapple had drawn up for an isolated communications tower in the proposed Autobot City, he felt Soundwave's touch in the air. It made him tense and move double time, trying to isolate out the other Communicator's transmissions, read them, block them, whatever. Anything that could hinder or hurt the traitor.

Because Blaster would never forget, or forgive, the sound of screaming and then silence.


	2. G1: A Stranger in His Own Skin

A Stranger in His Own Skin  
by K. Stonham  
first released 15th November 2008

English was a language full of idioms, which Jazz could dig. They painted pictures in his processor and even those few he didn't initially understand--what, for instance, was a duck, and why did water roll off its back?--just had their own _vibe_ to them, man. He grooved with the music inherent in the language and danced to its rhythms. They were just so colorful, so _apt_. But, just like almost everyone else, he felt a little homesick.

It wasn't that Earth wasn't dandy--it was--and even if the humans were no bigger than Cassettes, they were still a funky species. But what made him feel a touch of the out-of-placeness Earth was settling on them all were the _designs_. Human style (or, he reminded himself, USA style, because there were a lotta different cultures on this planet and a wide spread of aesthetic sensibilities) was just so _alien_. For a species and a planet that was so set on curves as the mode de riguer, their vehicles were... boxes.

Not that Teletraan hadn't taken individual temperments into spec when redesigning their alt modes to function as camouflage; most of the 'Bots, Jazz included, were quite pleased with the choices their ship's semi-sentient AI had made. Well, not Gears, maybe, but then Gears was never pleased with _anything_. And Jazz could definitely deal with wheels instead of hoverpads; they took a bite out of top speed, but they also used a load less energy and, well, somehow they just made racing more _fun_. But, still, he sometimes caught glimpses of his crewmates out of the corner of his optic and for a flash of a second wondered who they were. They looked so alien, so boxy and blocky. He understood why Teletraan hadn't picked any of the older human vehicles for them to imitate; they were rare and thus remarkable, and also a lot slower. But still... it would've been nice to look at something sleek and rounded and a little more familiar. Not that Ratchet wasn't Ratchet and Prowl wasn't Prowl and the twins weren't still the Pit on hovers... or, in the local vernacular, Hell on wheels.

Still, he wished he felt comfortable looking into a mirror again.


	3. G1: Think of Me

Musical Theatre: Think of Me  
by K. Stonham  
first released 15th May 2008

Earth was a curious planet. Not just because of its humans or its vast stores or raw energy sources, or because it was the latest battleground in a war that had dragged on for pretty much all of Hot Rod's life. No, what was strange about it was how it _changed_, and how quickly it changed. Its primary sentient species lived their entire life-cycles in an single vorn, with most of the rest of the planet's inhabitants at about the same or less. It tilted, too, in its orbit, so it seemed like it had barely begun to warm up before the cold season hit and all of a sudden the roads were covered in flurries of frozen precipitation.

Yet things were so contrary here that only Earth and her humans could have come up with the term "evergreen."

Hot Rod stood in front of the sunlit pine tree, contemplating. It wasn't that big--barely as tall as him--and he had no idea how long it had lived. But where most of the planet's flora dropped their leaves and hibernated during the cold season, pines and their ilk didn't. They persevered, ignoring the seasonal tides of change, and kept true.

The dusty green needles reminded him of Springer, and he felt a pang in his primary energon pump. Psychosomatic, Perceptor probably would have called it.

It wasn't that he was... jealous. No, Springer deserved the best, true friend that he'd always been, and so did Arcee. If they felt that what was best for each of them was one another, who was Hot Rod to object? He should be happy for them. He was. Really.

He'd... had a chance once, he thought, at Arcee. When he'd been young and ignorant and confident. She'd liked him. He'd known how to make her laugh. But then he'd gotten the Matrix and suddenly become Prime and in between trying to adjust to that, to figure out what to do when he'd had no training, none at all, for a leadership position... he'd grown up, and in some ways left her behind. Whatever spark there had been between them had died a'borning. She'd turned to someone who could give her what she needed, and that had been Springer.

He wasn't jealous... much. They'd made no promises. It wasn't like he'd had any right to her, or, a tiny part of him whispered and he acknowledged, to Springer. They were happy together, content in one another and complete.

"Rodimus?" Hot Rod turned, dropping his hand from where he'd been contemplatively touching a branch.

"Optimus?" he asked in reply. He'd known who it was simply from the name; no one else called him that anymore.

The Autobot leader contemplated him, then asked softly, "Is everything... all right?"

"It's fine," Hot Rod replied, not really lying. "I was just thinking."

He sensed a smile behind the mask. "Hard to think of you thinking."

"Everyone changes," he quipped, sounding for an instant like the carefree 'bot he'd once been. "Did you need me for something?"

"If you're not busy, I'd like your opinion on a treaty draft between the Nebulans and the EDC."

"Sure." Happy to be of use, especially as a peacemaker rather than a warrior, Hot Rod fell into step beside Optimus, feeling oddly like he was seen as a younger brother or partner rather than a temporary usurper. But then, he knew rationally, his doubts were usually more in his own mind than in others.

Behind the two Autobots, on the southern side of the base of the pine tree grew a wild pink rose, and both Earth plants seemed happy with the arrangement.

_We never said our love was evergreen, or as unchanging as the sea, but please promise me that sometimes you will think of me..._


	4. BW: Wheeljack's Laughter

Wheeljack's Laughter  
by K. Stonham  
first released 28th May 2009

The night of their third solar cycle marooned on the planet, Cheetor jerked out of recharge, fuel pump pounding, as a large boom rocked the ship. "Predacon attack!" he cried immediately, racing out of his chambers, automatically checking his power charge and weapons status.

He skidded onto the bridge far faster than any of the others would have managed. "Ratface!" he cried to the figure at the control panel, "what's happening?"

Rattrap turned around to look at him, puzzlement--but oddly no alarm--writ large across his face.

Light flashed across the monitors, followed by another boom that rocked the downed spacecraft.

"We're under attack!" Cheetor cried. "What are they using? Is it some kind of energy weapon, or--"

"Kid," Rattrap interrupted, his tone as much as saying his patience could only be tested so far, "what are you going on about?"

"That!" Cheetor replied, pointing to the screen where light flashed again.

Rattrap's optical sensors blinked once, then his head fell forward, hand covering his face. Two digits massaged the plating of his temples. "Primus but cats are stupid..." he muttered.

"It's... not an attack?" Cheetor asked, weapons status downgrading slowly from imminent readiness to standby.

"It's an atmospheric phenomenon known as lightning and thunder," Rhinox rumbled from behind Cheetor, coming to the bridge himself. "Never seen it this up close before, though."

"We always called it Wheeljack's Laughter where I was formatted," Rattrap replied, turning back to his monitors. "Ain't it beautiful?"

"Not that beautiful," Cheetor replied as it rocked the ship again, making his fur-sensors tingle uncomfortably.

Rhinox was looking at Rattrap, though. "Wouldn't've thought you'd know about Wheeljack," he commented. "You don't sound like you're from Iacon."

The rodent-former shrugged. "I get around. Went through some training. The old man had us do runs through his lab. Picked up some neat tricks."

Cheetor stared at Rattrap, wide-opticked. "You've been in Wheeljack's Lab?" he demanded. "That place's haunted!"

"There's a world of difference between 'haunted' and 'boobytrapped'," Rattrap replied acerbically. Pellets of ice were rattling against the forward viewscreens. "Anyway, if I ain't afraid of livin' Preds, ain't no way I'm gonna be scared of dead Autobots. Even if they did like to make things go boom."

Light flashed again and the thunder shook the ship. Rattrap turned back to the monitors, a small smile on his faceplates, now hidden from his crewmates. "To the things that go bang in the night," he murmured, too low to be heard, in salute to a long-dead engineer.

Outside the ship, Wheeljack kept laughing all night long.

~*~*~

A/N: I don't know if the "old man" Rattrap refers to who taught him the art of espionage is Kup or Jazz. He wasn't telling me. As to the boobytrapped aspect of 'Jack's lab... well, I figure there has to be a reason no one, either Autobot or Decepticon, disturbed it during the four million years he was in stasis on Earth....


	5. G1: Medbay

Medbay  
by K. Stonham  
first released 11th June 2008

"They're the spawn of the Pit, I swear," Prowl grumbled, optics on the closed medbay door through which the gold and red hides of the Lamborghini twins had just been forcibly ejected by Ratchet.

"Nah," Jazz said easily, leaning against the berth of which Prowl--missing a leg, two wheels, and his back windshield among other things--was currently resident. "The Pit kicked them out when they tried to take over."

"I swear Primus sent them to us to test my patience," Prowl countered.

Ratchet laughed a touch at that, wandering back to the berth, spanner in hand. "I wouldn't count on that, Prowl." At the tactician's raised optical ridge, he elaborated, "If Primus really wanted to test your patience with the two of them, they'd have Hound's hologram projector or Mirage's photon disruptor."

There was silence in the medbay for a moment as Prowl contemplated this idea. Then his optics went dark and his head thudded down on the berth, out like a light.

"Really, Doc, wouldn't anesthetics be easier than shutting him down via his logic circuits?" Jazz asked brightly.

"But not nearly as much fun," Ratchet replied with a smirk, leaning in over his patient.


	6. TFA: Megatron's Daughter

Megatron's Daughter  
by K. Stonham  
first released 16th July 2008

Once, when she was littler, she'd asked her dad why her hair was red when his was black (and going gray in places, but the noise he made when she said that wasn't funny anymore), not really expecting much of an answer. Tutorbot hadn't been able to give her one, after all.

"Ah, my child, that is something you and I will talk about when you are older," Isaac had answered. Funny that she was remembering it now. She'd always loved her dad's voice, its rough imperfect cadence (completely different from Tutorbot's mechanical precision), the way it always sounded like he loved her even when he was yelling at her for spilling soda on open circuits.

"Has this got to do with my mom?" she'd guessed, stabbing in the dark. Other people had moms, after all: the kids who came to her birthday party every year had moms.

Her dad had stilled at that for a moment, then said "In a way, my child. I will tell you when you're older. Come now, it is time for warm milk and then bed." And he'd ushered her off, asking about what she'd learned that day, distracting her from the question.

Now, of course, she knew better. Knew that while other kids had moms, she didn't. Of course, the Autobots didn't have moms either, and that made it a little better, but it still hurt worse than ripping a band-aid off. She'd built up this fantasy in her head of a tall, slender woman with dark eyes and tan skin, red hair like hers. She'd figured her mom would have loved her, but that she'd probably died while Sari was still a baby, and that someday her dad would tell her about her mom.

Instead, she'd been told a longer, uglier story. One about a young man who discovered a disembodied robotic alien head and studied it for years. About how he'd used what he'd learned to build everyday useful robots. How he'd built an empire. And eventually how, having gotten older, he'd wanted someone to love but also someone to test his craft. And so he'd used everything he'd learned and dreamed and built himself a little robot girl. A daughter.

Her.

So while Tutorbot (reclaimed from the slimy mitts of Henry Masterson) droned on in the background about Galatea and Pinocchio, Sari examined her reflection in the mirror. She looked like her dad; there were certain resemblances of shape of face, of of nose, of eye color. But her hair--

She tugged both ponytails outward at the same time, making them look like bicycle handlebars.

Red.

The image of Decepticon eyes--optics--flashed through her mind and she dropped the ponytails like they were on fire.

"Sari?" Bumblebee's voice, and she turned to look at him. Even after her dad had reclaimed the Sumdac empire, she'd refused to go back to the Tower. Who knew that that creep Headmaster had gotten up to in her old room, after all. She'd stayed with the Autobots. Her dad understood, or at least said he did. He visited a lot, and so did she. "What's wrong?" Her best friend (or at least one of them, they were all kind of her best friends) had his head tilted to one side in that is-this-a-normal-thing-or-a-human-thing-I'm-not-gonna-get questioning manner.

"Um." She glanced back at the mirror, at her red hair, and didn't know what to say. So of course it all came out in a rush. "Do you think I'm really a Decepticon because I mean my dad built me from Megatron's technology and I have red hair and they have red eyes and the Decepticons are evil and I don't want to be one of them!"

"Whoa!" Bumblebee held his hands up in a "stop" gesture. "Where'd that come from all of a sudden?"

Sari glared. She loved him dearly but sometimes Bumblebee was as thick as a brick and just assumed that everything was okay until told otherwise. Witness how he'd thought she was handling things after her dad had disappeared. "Maybe I should go talk to Prowl," she muttered, and stalked off to find the ninja-bot.

"Hey, hold on there!" Bumblebee caught her delicately by one arm. They were all like that around her, treating her--okay, all humans--like they were made out of glass or something. One giant metal finger brushed along a ponytail, making it bob. "This is because your hair is red?" He peered at her and she nodded, feeling embarrassed and stupid. It was only hair, after all. She could just cut it off or something. "I always thought your hair was kind of pretty," he offered. "It suits you."

She glared at him for avoiding the question--just like her dad--and he sighed and sat down cross-legged. "Look, Sari, I don't know if you've noticed, but Decepticons don't have a monopoly on the color red," he said, jerking a thumb at his Autobot symbol. She stared at it for a moment, noticing for what felt like the first time that it was red too. "I mean, Ratchet's red. And so's Optimus. So I really don't think your hair being red means you're a Decepticon. And Megatron was a regular Cybertronian before he was a Decepticon, so I don't think you need to worry about that either."

Sari stared at him for just a few seconds longer, then flung herself into a hug around as much of his body as she could reach (which admittedly wasn't very much), smiling widely. "You're the best friend ever!" she declared.

"Yeah, I know," he agreed with no trace of false modesty. "So, we were going to watch some movies. Wanna try an oilshake?"

"You bet!"

*~*~*

A/N: This... doesn't match canon for season three of Animated as far as Sari's origins. This would be because it was written during the year-long gap between seasons two and three. Nonetheless, I hope you enjoyed it.


	7. G1: V for Victory

V For Victory  
by K. Stonham  
first released 30th May 2008

Off to one side of the Ark, up the slope of Mt. St. Hilary just enough to be out of the way of large robotic feet, was a garden. Perceptor took note of it as soon as he stepped outside of the crashed spaceship, viewing for the first time this alien world he and his comrades had been stranded on. It was quite clearly not a natural phenomenon; the plants were in neatly ordered squares of levelled soil, carefully tied to stakes, winding their way skyward with artificial assistance. Additionally, he considered as he walked over to take a closer look, they did not seem to be compatible with the other flora in the area.

"I beg your pardon, Hound," he asked one of the longer-awake Autobots who happened to be nearby, "but this is not a natural formation, is it?"

"What? Oh," Hound said, chuckling as he realized what Perceptor was referring to. "No. That's Sparkplug's garden."

"Garden...?" Perceptor inquired, cross-referencing the concept with the specimen gardens scientists had long kept on Cybertron. The biggest, and most famous, was the Hanging Crystal Gardens of Praxus, but there had been many, many others, educational tools all. Perhaps these Earth natives weren't so different from Cybertronians after all.

"Yeah. He uses it to grow fuel for himself and Spike. Pretty neat to watch and help out with sometimes." Hound grinned. "Word of advice: human food plants can be pretty fragile, so it's best to ask before helping. Brawn accidentally squashed a tomato plant last year and still feels guilty about it."

Perceptor blinked. "Fuel...?" he repeated blankly, looking at the plants. He'd known that organic lifeforms couldn't process energon, and granted the human species by and large were only the size of Cassettes, but still... the caloric content of this patch of greenery surely wasn't enough to sustain one native, let alone two!

*~*~*

Sparkplug grunted, digging with his grubber to loosen the root of the weed so he could yank it out and toss it onto the compost pile. It was a tough sucker and clung tenaciously to the ground, but after a minute of man-versus-greenery struggle, he triumphed and pulled it loose. With a satisfied smile he let it fly. "Hide behind _my_ lettuce, will you?" he asked rhetorically.

"Heh." Jazz let a laugh from where he was sitting on the rocks, watching and acting as shade. "You really hate those weeds, don't'cha, Sparkplug?"

"Hate, no. Get annoyed with, yes," Sparkplug replied, wiping his forehead with an arm. He looked up at the blazing May sun. "Think it's about time to drag out the shade covering for this year," he postulated. The lettuce had been mostly in the shade of the tomato plants, but the arid heat was finally starting to get to it and the plants would be bolting soon, gone until early fall and cooler weather came back again. A sun filter over the beds would give the rest of the garden some relief in the punishing desert summer, though.

"Wicked cool," Jazz said. "I'll get it for you in a bit. Wish I could help more, but...." He spread his hands and shrugged helplessly. Sparkplug couldn't help grinning. Gardening was one thing most of the Autobots _couldn't_ do. For the most part their hands were simply too big to be able to grasp weeds and their sense of texture not fine enough to be able to avoid squishing ripe tomatoes. The minibots could do some things, but the thought of Cliffjumper trying to weed a bed of peas was laughable. He'd probably end up blasting holes in the ground to get rid of the invaders.

"Not a problem, Jazz," he assured the 3IC. "Some things a man's gotta do for himself."

"Utterly fascinating," Perceptor muttered to himself, poking carefully at a cornstalk. "This is perhaps the most inefficient design for species reproduction that I have ever encountered."

"Hey, don't knock it if it works, Percy," Jazz advised.

"Humans have been cultivating corn for thousands of years," Sparkplug agreed. "It seems to be effective."

"But it could be improved!" the Cybertronian scientist insisted.

"Nuh-uh," Spike retorted, arriving at the garden with Bumblebee in tow. "No messing with our food system, Perceptor. Wheeljack's bad enough!"

Perceptor straightened slightly, looking at Spike as the teenager opened the gate with its hanging "V" sign overhead. Bumblebee followed him inside, ducking slightly to clear the arch. "Dare I inquire what Wheeljack attempted?"

"Heh. Let's just say it involved explosions," Bumblebee replied, placing his feet carefully between the beds.

"With 'Jack, don't it always?" Jazz quipped in return. "Our chief engineer got his hands on some cereal grain and attempted to distill it into what humans call 'corn liquor' to see if he could refine that into organic energon."

"I... see," Perceptor replied, his optics slightly wide, doubtlessly imagining how said attempt might've gone.

"I think the twins got his still after he was banned from ever trying it again," Spike offered, kneeling to examine the pepper plants. His hands delved through green leaves and gently cradled a red bell pepper, snapping it cleanly off its stem. The fruit practically glowed in the sunlight. He grinned, raising it to show it off to Bumblebee.

"Been meanin' to ask you," Jazz commented, "what's the 'V' over the gate for?"

Sparkplug sat back on his heels and exchanged a glance with his son. "It's kind of a Witwicky family tradition," he started. "Back in the forties, before I was born, America got involved in World War Two. To support the war effort and free up supplies for the troops, people grew vegetable gardens in their yards. They were called victory gardens. So that's 'V' for vegetable, but it's also 'V' for victory," he explained.

"After all," Spike agreed, "we're in a war now too."

*~*~*

A/N: Mt. St. Helens, I mean _Hilary_, is a bit out of the way of civilization for easy grocery store runs, so I borrowed a bit of Ron from the '07 movie and applied that to Sparkplug having a vegetable patch off to the side of the Ark. Made sense to me when I wrote it, anyway....


	8. TFA: The Haunting

The Haunting  
by K. Stonham  
first released 11th June 2009

He'd had no idea how much _work_ was involved with the Magnus' position. After he and his crew had returned from Earth, bringing with them the finally recaptured warlord Megatron, the protoform pods he'd stolen, and his top henchmen, especially the most-wanted Shockwave, it hadn't taken even astrocycles before the High Council had asked Optimus Prime, black cybersheep and prodigal son that he was, to serve as acting Magnus.

A wry little voice in his head had said something distinctly uncharitable about Sentinel Prime even as he'd turned away from the warring emotions crossing his once-friend's face, and quietly accepted the duty.

The thing was, that voice hadn't gone away.

Oh, he didn't hear it all the time. Mostly it was just himself in his thoughts. But when he'd misplaced a data pad he desperately needed, or forgotten a Councilor's name, or pushed himself too far... that quiet voice would speak up.

He'd had Ratchet examine him for any misplaced coding or circuits jarred out of alignment that could be causing the auditory hallucinations, since the last thing Cyberton needed until Ultra Magnus was back on his feet was an glitched leader.

(There the voice remarked that just what did he think Sentinel Prime had been)

Ratchet's scans and exams came up clear. "A clean bill of health, Prime," he'd reported. "Maybe you're just working too hard. Remember to keep some time for yourself."

("I'd agree," the phantom voice chimed in, "but I already know you won't listen.")

At least the voice was sensible. Too sensible, sometimes. On the other servo, it was definitely a relief from Bumblebee and the Jet twins.

Still, very late one cycle when Optimus was struggling to finish at least the minimum necessary forms for _that_ day, it all came to a head.

"You know, you really need a secretary," someone said, coming into the Magnus' office and picking up one of the datapads that littered the desk.

"I couldn't agree more," Optimus muttered, accepting the pad as it was handed to him, looking up only on reflex.

He froze, looking at the black and gold armor of a ninja whose frame he had helped inter himself, all too recently.

"Hey, Prime, sorry but I got one more stack of pads that need your signature," Jazz said, coming into the office, arms full. He set the pads down on the desk before noticing Optimus staring next to him. "What up, Prime?"

"Jazz, do you see him?"

"See who?" the white ninja-bot asked. Prowl merely smirked.

"Did you honestly think that wearing the Matrix wouldn't have consequences?" the dead ninja asked.

"Prowl..." Optimus said.

"Prowl?" Jazz looked surprised, glancing between Optimus and the space next to himself. He frowned slightly, then shot out a hand, lightning-fast, to touch the Allspark where it was held in the containment Matrix that Optimus wore around his neck until the science guild could agree on what to do with it. His optics widened, a neat trick for someone who wore a visor all the time. "So that was you, mech."

"It's not the body," Prowl said, just a hint of haughty pride in his tone.

"It's the ninja-bot," Jazz finished for him.

The two ninjas smiled at one another, in nigh-perfect unison. Somehow Optimus felt left out of a conversation that he wasn't even sure they were having.

"He needs a secretary," Prowl commented. "He'll work himself into deactivation otherwise."

"I'll see to it, mech," Jazz promised.

And then Prowl was gone.

"Well, I'll say this for you, Boss-bot," Jazz commented, lifting his hand off the Matrix and straightening, "you sure get your share of protectors."

* * *

~*~*~Addendum~*~*~

Sari shrieked, fleeing behind Bulkhead and Bumblebee.

"Sari, what's wrong?" the large green one asked, turning around to look at the little technorganic.

"Something happening?" the smaller yellow one piped up, twisting to look down at her.

"It's Prowl's ghost! We didn't lay him to rest properly or something and he's coming back to haunt us!" she babbled, brown eyes wide with terror as she clung to Bulkhead's leg.

"There's no such thing as ghosts," Ratchet groused, walking more sedately into the Elite Guard HQ.

"Then explain that!" she demanded, pointing down a hallway to her left.

Various objects flung themselves from all directions at an already-battered Sentinel Prime, who cursed at each impact.

Bumblebee and Bulkhead blinked.

Ratchet, however, growled. "Get out of there, all of you!" he barked, and used his EM field generators to yank out of hiding not only a blue and gold pair of twins, but a second, even younger, red and gold pair. He stomped over to loom over the quartet. "Think that's funny, do you?"

The Jet twins looked at one another, then nodded vigorously. The sports car twins didn't even bother, one smirking and the other grinning without needing to consult.

"I demand that the four of them--"

"Can it, Sentinel," Ratchet replied, one of the warped sheets of metal on the floor mysteriously hitting the Prime in his face and knocking him off his feet. "Hmm." Looking speculatively at the twins, he turned back to the other three. "Bumblebee!"

"Uh... yes, Ratchet?"

"I think these four need to retake basic training. You and Bulkhead see to it."

The two mentioned looked blankly at one another.

"Uhh, Ratchet..." Bulkhead started.

The medic glared at him.

"Right," Bulkhead decided. "Come on, guys."

As the four young mechs followed the two slightly older ones, an invisible presence smiled slightly to itself.

And maybe might have dropped another sheet of metal on Sentinel.


	9. G1: Nameless

Nameless  
by K. Stonham  
released February 14th, 2009

The popular opinion was that Prowl wasn't capable of love. Most would say that the only thing he loved was his slagging precious rules and regs, or maybe that glorified battle computer that he was so proud of. A few might grudgingly admit that he loved the Autobot cause, while a very very small number would point out that he obviously cared deeply for his two frame-kin even though Smokescreen, at least, frequently drove him to the point of (as the humans would say) seeing red. It was only the rare hint of emotion--pride, tenderness, anger--escaping him that let any of his comrades know that he was more than an AI or emotionless drone. Prowl was not a popular or engaging 'bot, and if his emotions had really been as non-existent as the common banter said, he would have been little more than an idiot savant in their ranks.

Few considered asking the mech that Prowl quartered with if he had any insight into the matter. Those who had had been met with an easy grin, a shrug, and a light dismissing comment. Jazz, surprisingly, wasn't interested in spreading rumors about his fellow officer. It might've given the smarter among them food for thought, but... Jazz and Prowl? Prowl could barely _stand_ Jazz, arguing with him all the time, and Jazz was a light-hearted player, not likely to settle on one 'bot, let alone the pipe-up-his-aft second in command. It was a laughable thought.

No one thought about the fact that Jazz was the hardest, fastest, and smartest of the Special Ops division. The worst thing about rooming with him, they thought, would be rock music played at loud volumes at inappropriate hours. Only Ratchet knew about the multiple lines scored across Prowl's neck, paint and metal melted and warped from a vibro-blade held there for long minutes courtesy of Jazz's waking reflexes. Or about the multiple dents and contusions and joints painfully wrenched out of place when the door had opened and Prowl had walked in behind Jazz soundlessly, prompting every instinct Jazz had to say "Enemy!" and react.

Prowl had discovered long ago that being _silent_ around Jazz was, in fact, a very bad idea.

Names among Cybertronians, though, weren't merely a matter of heritage and preference and personal association, the way they were among the main human culture in which the crew of the Ark and Nemesis had found themselves stranded. They were chosen to express an aspect of self, to state who one was, their skills, their beliefs and place in life. Thus Ironhide was nigh-indestructible, Skywarp a teleporting flyer, and Hound a tracker. Bumblebee's name expressed his sunny personality, Jazz's showed his love of music and his improvisational skills (and translated amazingly well to an appropriate style of music on Earth), and Prowl's name reflected the fact that he had been designed to run utterly silent. If his battle computer hadn't been so needed in a tactical position (and his organizational skills required even more badly), he likely would have ended up under Jazz, as a member of the Special Operations division. A mech who moved and ran so noiselessly would have been a _choice_ spy.

But around Jazz, a war-scarred mech of black ops missions, being silent was dangerous. So, quietly (as was his wont), Prowl had consulted with Ratchet and had his systems de-tuned to emit just a whisper of noise. His weaponry he similarly mis-calibrated. His footsteps... it was a conscious effort to not move silently, to learn to make noise like other mechs. And sometimes he wondered if it was worth it, giving up the meaning of his name and all that he was for Jazz, but....

"I can't, Prowl," Jazz had confessed to him once, looking away, ashamed.

"Why not?" Prowl asked, sitting on the berth across from Jazz, hands folded politely in his lap.

"Because--" Jazz cut himself off and grimaced, then wordlessly irised all dozen of his interface connections open, neat silver circles appearing from beneath his black and white paint.

Prowl's intakes hitched in horror. The damage was even worse than what he knew lay beneath Jazz's visor, where a Decepticon torturer had slashed the saboteur's optics out, scars remaining to this day that Ratchet couldn't fix. Jazz's connections... looked like they'd been _melted_, rough silver slag bubbled where there should have been pins and ports. Jazz's expression held no humor. "Never piss off the interrogator," he advised.

"Jazz... may I touch them?" Prowl asked, not knowing quite what to say at the revelation.

Jazz shrugged. "Sure."

Prowl crossed the space between them, kneeling. He touched a gentle finger to the ruined port just above Jazz's left hip, looking up at the other mech. There was no reaction. "Can you feel this?" he asked.

"I can't feel a thing," Jazz replied. And that was true on so many levels. Something inside Jazz was scarred, too, emotional protocols burned out or shut down in self-defense. It showed in the way he fought, utterly ruthless. He was, in a way, more feared by the Decepticons than even the Lamborghini twins. The twins would dent you up, slag with your head, and laugh at you. Jazz would rip out your laser core. He was not a mech you would want to meet in a dark alley.

And Prowl, possessing only minimal emotional protocols himself, was his sheath. They fit together, in an odd way, and both of them knew it. For all their disagreements on plans and strategy and the meaning of rules and regulations, they needed one another to understand the world around them, to explain things in a way that made sense. Prowl loved Jazz for being someone who finally _understood_, and the way that Jazz was sometimes tender and gentle to Prowl in a way he wasn't to anyone else spoke volumes. Jazz had never meant to damage him, and Prowl understood that. The war had ruined Jazz, warped him from who he'd been before, in ways that not even Prime knew about.

"These don't matter," Prowl said quietly, about Jazz's damaged connections. "Tell me you killed him."

"Her," Jazz corrected. "And I did."

"Good," Prowl said. The viciousness with which he said the one word would have surprised anyone else. "I don't want you just to interface with you."

Jazz looked at him for a long few seconds, then slowly, carefully, folded his arms around Prowl, drawing him close.

Sometimes there were very good reasons for Prowl to have given up his name.


	10. G1: Sparks in Spades

**Sparks in Spades**  
by K. Stonham  
first released 15th September, 2010

Dean John Miller ran his hand through his thinning brown hair. "This is highly irregular," he sighed half in complaint, half out of habit, as he set the printout back down onto his desk.

"I know, sir, but imagine the prestige if we accept this student into the school," his aide countered.

"And the danger to our staff and students," he replied.

"Danger?" Nathan asked. "But the Autobots are on our side."

"And," John pointed out, "having one associated with our school increases the odds of the Decepticons taking interest in us. Or one of those anti-alien terrorist nutjobs."

"Ah." Nathan stilled, obviously not having considered that scenario before.

"Still..." Miller murmured, undecided, "an *Autobot* in our medical program...?" Why any of the aliens would _want_ to dedicate themselves to a multiple-year course of study on human anatomy during the middle of their war was beyond him.

* * *

First Aid sighed, wanting but not wanting to read the single message that was waiting in his inbox. It might say that they'd accepted him... but it also might not. Teletraan blinked at him, deceptively innocent, impossibly patient.

"I need to learn human medicine to be a truly effective medic," he murmured to himself, repeating an old argument that he'd been having since he first realized how many humans were involved with the Autobots, settling around Autobot City, working with them... and injured in Decepticon attacks. He and Ratchet and Hoist had gone over the problem time and time again, chasing the whys and how-tos and irritating size differentials into tired paths that only spun themselves around. Circular logic at its finest.

Despite the fine, fine work all three of them could and did perform on their fellow Autobots, mending cracked circuits and applying solder in lines thinner than a single human hair, the idea of helping to mend non-robotic individuals was... unsettling, at best. They were so _squishy_. So _wet_. And so very, very fragile and delicate.

In the end, First Aid had finally screwed up his courage and sent in an application for an appropriate course of study. Someone, he reasoned, was going to have to be the first to do it, and he and his brothers had been activated with Earth and its needs in mind. He was the best suited and he had included a copy of his service record, recommendations from his fellow medics, and letters from both of the Ambassadors Witwicky highlighting his dedication to the medical arts.

He could only hope it had been enough.

His hand flexed once, and he pressed the button.

_"Dear Mr. First Aid,  
After considerable review of your circumstances and obvious dedication to medicine, we have decided that it would be an honor to have you enrolled in our campus' programs..."_

Despite waiting and hoping for weeks, First Aid couldn't believe his optic sensors. They _wanted_ him to enroll!

After a moment of shocked, stunned glee, his processor kicked into gear.

He had to get permission from Optimus Prime to accept the offer. He had to arrange his schedule with Prowl to allow him to attend those classes that would not allow telecommuting as an option. He had to tell his brothers that the university wanted him!

* * *

Not long later, listening to the bass-thumping sounds of Jazz's impromptu congratulation party for the young medic, Prime smiled behind his mask as First Aid presented his formal request. It hadn't come as any surprise that the medic was interested in properly studying human medicine. Given First Aid's innate programming and the fact that humans and the Autobots were working so closely together these days, this conclusion had been inevitable.

"Permission granted," he said with a smile. "Just don't get too carried away in your studies, First Aid... we still need you here."

"I understand, Optimus," the gentle-hearted Protectobot responded. "I won't let my studies interfere with my duties as a medic."

* * *

"I don't believe this," Jeanne whispered to her study partner. "An Autobot studying human medicine!" She glanced over at the red and white robot where he was kneeling in the back of the auditorium, glowing blue gaze raptly paying attention to Professor Nakamura's demonstration.

Ali shrugged, not taking his eyes off of the professor either. "Why not?" he replied mildly."How did he even get in the room?" Jeanne wondered. "He's huge!" The doors weren't big enough to admit him. And what he must weigh, being made of metal... "How is the floor even supporting him?"

"Whatever. Let him do what he wants," Ali retorted, rolling his eyes. "Stop gossiping about the robot and start paying attention to the teacher, or I'm not going to give you copies of my trig notes later."

* * *

_Some years later..._

First Aid sat in the university parking lot. He hadn't been scared of his first day of classes. He hadn't been scared the first time he'd wielded his laser scalpel on a living human who didn't bear the surname Witwicky. He hadn't even been scared when Ratchet decided getting some practical experience meant leaving 90% of baby Daniel's delivery to his assistant. But now, on the morning of his final exams? First Aid was frozen in terror, unable to transform and walk onto the campus he'd been attending for years. And after the exams, he was sure, he would have enough free time to be terrified of actually getting a human medical license. If he passed. He probably wouldn't. He'd make a thousand mistakes. He needed to study more. He didn't know enough, would never know enough about the alien race to qualify as any kind of-

"Get in there, you big wuss," Ratchet groused, pushing the junior medic toward the building.

"But what if-" First Aid argued, his brakes on all the way.

"'What if,' nothing!" his mentor barked. "You've studied those texts and diagrams until you could recite them backwards in Nebulan during your recharge."

"But-" First Aid whined.

Ratchet stopped pushing him. The CMO straightened, staring down at the ambulance. He crossed his arms. "First Aid," he said solemnly, "if you did not have potential to be one of the greatest medics Cybertron has ever produced, you would never have been apprenticed into my medbay here on Earth, no matter how useful Defensor is to have around. I'd have left you doing small, menial repairs with Wheeljack."

The Protectobot was quiet, listening.

"Humans," Ratchet continued, "are not all that different from us. Once you go past the differences in material, we're constructed much the same. And the most important parts of both our species are in here." He thumped first on his chest, then his head. "Spark-or heart in their case-and processor. And you've got both." He knelt beside the ambulance, one red hand on its white roof. "The most important part about being a medic, of any species, is to care about your patients. And you've got that in spades, kid. Now go in there, take your exams, and knock the grading curve out of the park."

First Aid was silent for a moment longer, stunned quiet by the immensity of Ratchet's praise. Ratchet, who didn't mince words for anyone!

"I'll... I'll try to do you proud, sir," he finally managed, and transformed, running toward the auditorium, eeling himself through the human-size doors with a grace learned from years of rescuing beings from a species far smaller than he.

Ratchet stood smiling, watching after the younger Autobot medic, ignoring those lingering curious humans wondering what a second Autobot was doing at their university. "You already have, kid."

* * *

**Author's Note**: This... was an unfinished story I wrote a long time ago. Probably 1995ish. And it would have likely remained that way forever, except for the Livejournal Flesh and Steel community's challenge for "medical exam." Which took me in the non-intended non-pr0ny direction of remembering this. So I blew the dust off it and edited and added to almost to the point of unrecognizeability. My apologies to members of the medical profession for probably royally screwing up the process of entering your field, but I had to work with what I have, which was the simple college experience of getting two "soft science" B.A.s. As always, major kudos to my Wonderful Husband for editing this for me.


	11. IDW: The Dance of Discarding

**The Dance of Discarding**  
by K. Stonham  
first released June 2nd, 2011

Thrust.

Block.

Attack.

End up on your aft.

Up. Repeat.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Each cycle burned with exhaustion and frustration and never... quite... getting it!

Drift glared at the swordpoint before him. More specifically at the empty air surrounding it.

It _should_ be Wing's shell surrounding that swordpoint, but as always Wing had danced out of the way with a grace that taunted, made a lie out of how narrowly the blade had missed impaling the other mech.

He hated this city, he hated Wing, he hated all of it.

"Break," Wing said, offering him a hand up.

Drift ignored the offer and shoved himself to his feet. He brushed off imaginary debris. He examined his damage. He looked anywhere but at Wing.

"You're not, you know." He looked up. Wing stood there, holding out a cube. Blue-green; low-grade, but thrice-refined as was Crystal City's wont.

He'd never had better. And he couldn't deny that he did not miss the slag that masqueraded as Decepticon rations.

He swiped the cube from Wing's grasp. The other mech only smiled at him. Drift drained half the cube in one swallow.

"Not what?" he finally growled.

"Bad. At this."

Drift said nothing. Wing just kept smiling that same, stupid, gentle smile. It was irritating.

"It's true." Wing stepped toward him. Drift tensed. "Here. Let me show you." The flier stepped behind Drift, putting his arms around him. "First stance."

Tossing back the rest of his cube and setting it down to the side, Drift reluctantly assumed the position. Silently Wing's right foot nudged his a little further forward. The larger mech's arms embraced his, hand correcting his grasp on the hilt of the practice sword. His left arm was pulled a little further out. "There. Feel that?"

Drift was silent, assessing.

There was a difference, he acknowledged. He felt more... balanced. Centered, for lack of a better word.

"First kata," Wing instructed in his audial, and moved with him through it. Slowly, so slowly. Every time Drift tried to speed it up and move as fast as he wanted to, Wing kept him back. "There is no rush," the flier told him. "No need to hurry. You can take your time."

So they danced slowly through the form. And it was far more of a dance this way. It was how Wing moved, all purposeful grace and deliberate motion.

"You don't need to fight the world," Wing whispered to Drift. "Instead, you can choose to flow with it."

* * *

Alone in Xantium's hold, Drift opened his optics, finishing dancing through the form.

It had taken a long time, and far too much patience, but his teacher... his friend... had been right.

Wing's Great Sword glowed in Drift's grasp, almost like a piece of Wing lived on beyond the Matrix and Primus' presence.

It had taken vorns of physical combat before Drift had grasped the beginning principles that Wing lived by. Vorns more for him to internalize them, forge them into his own identity.

Vorns to leave Deadlock behind.

Not that he ever fully could. He would always, Drift knew, be known as "that ex-Decepticon." Some would never completely trust him. Most, perhaps.

But he sighed and let that go. It didn't matter how most others saw him, only what some saw when they looked _into_ him. Only what he saw when he looked into himself.

Deadlock was dead, discarded, incinerated in the heart of a star.

And freed of that dross, all that was left, was Drift.

* * *

**A/N:** Written in one hour onsite for the Livejournal tf_speedwriting community's Botcon 2011 writing challenge. The prompt was a quote from Jim Morrison, "I am interested in anything about revolt, disorder, chaos - especially activity that seems to have no meaning. It seems to me to be the road toward freedom... Rather than starting inside, I start outside and reach the mental through the physical." Though it spoke to me of Drift, I have not actually read relevant comics and may have totally mangled some details. Please forgive any errors!


	12. G1: Things Spike Wishes the Universe Had

**Things Spike Wishes The Universe Had Told Him**  
by K. Stonham  
first released June 7th, 2011

Replacing Trailbreaker's salt-corroded undercarriage in the spring is even more nauseating than that salmon you once caught that had a plastic bag wound through its guts.

Decepticons are scary, but generally they only want to kill you. Humans... can be much worse.

Lamborghini twins get pissed when you learn how to distill high-grade energon from them and end up being better at it.

Over ten years' experience in the nuthouse that is the Ark still doesn't manage to prepare you for keeping up with a human toddler.

You should never, ever, say "Compared to fighting Decepticons, this is easy!" for the same reason other people should never say things like "God himself could not sink this ship!"

You know you've come a long way from the oil rig when your son is learning to read and asks you what a "warphole blade" is and your first thought is to forbid him to ask Wheeljack to make him one.

Contrariwise, while a recitation of anything Lewis Carroll wrote may make Prowl's logic circuits break down, it has the same effect on Shockwave.

Introducing Bluestreak and Kup to one another means that Bluestreak's babble slows down and starts to become more coherent under the older bot's tutelage in the Ancient and Venerable Art of Storytelling. It's something that someone ought to've done ages ago.

"Soldier in an ancient war with giant robots from another planet" may be the coolest job title ever, but your insurance premiums will be through the roof.

Going Headmaster, however, lowers them somewhat.

Being a Headmaster means you have voices in your head. Fortunately, though, while Cerebros tends toward gloom and depression, the world is still new to Maximus, and he explores it with a sense of wonder. You end up being an optimist to one and a tutor to the other, and eventually can't remember what life was like without the trinary bond.

Sometimes you don't even have to tell Carly. She just looks at the scars, at how tired you must seem, kisses you and tastes chemicals instead of saliva. And she knows you're no longer completely human.

Carly humbles you because she doesn't even blink at this.

She does, however, go off on the Autobots for letting Daniel get hurt like that. Mothers, no matter the species, are scary.

When she tells you two days later that she's expecting, it's all you can do not to hold her close and cry because you suddenly realize that your wife and unborn child are human, _mortal_... and you and your son are not.

After over twenty years of friendship, you two can still surprise Bumblebee/GoldBug when seven months later Carly hands him a pink-wrapped bundle and tells him the baby's name is Melissa, in his honor.

Asking Autobots to be godparents for both of your kids may not be the best life insurance program out there... but damn it feels good to include your friends in the rites and rituals of human society.

Sometimes people will come back from the dead and you have another chance to say all the things you wish you had...

Most of the time they don't.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Been sitting on this one for a couple years; finally said screw it, did a bit of editing and rearranging, and decided to post. It's based on my hazy recollection of late G1 events. The "warphole blade" mentioned is actually a four-year-old Daniel (perhaps dangerously) mispronouncing "vorpal blade" from Carroll's poem Jabberwocky. He likes how it goes snicker-snack. "Melissa" (which means "bee" in Greek) was inspired by Spike and Carly having a second child in the Transformers Animated series, though in that series she was named either Jennifer or Nancy depending on what you take as canon source. Melissa (despite its similarity to _Marisa_, a canon character) made more sense to me for a G1 name. And I should really rewatch The Rebirth at some point and see how far off I am.


	13. G1: A Good Hunt

**A Good Hunt**  
by K. Stonham  
first released 16th September 2011

Hound sat patiently in the parking lot, enjoying the predawn cool, the breeze that barely whispered against his chassis, and the activity he was (however marginally) engaged in.

Duck hunting. And today Sparkplug had taken Spike out with him and a few friends, to help "earn his stripes," as the elder human had put it.

Most of the Autobots, once they realized their human allies regularly consumed the flesh of the other living creatures, had been shocked. Nauseated. Muttering quietly (where Sparkplug and Spike couldn't hear them; they gave their friends at least that courtesy) about humans being a primitive, violent species.

Hound, if he'd been of a size suitable to accompany them, would have been waiting in the duck blind with the human hunters.

Back on Cybertron he'd been a wilderness guide. It was actually how he'd first met Mirage; the noble had engaged his services in several turbo-fox hunts. They were part of the sport and culture of the Towers. Hound had found a good part of his employment there, and felt that helped him understand the aloof spy somewhat better than most of the other Autobots did.

But that didn't change the fact that he and Mirage came from vastly different social strata. While the hunts had never been more to the noble than a pleasant way to pass the afternoon, they'd been a source of sustenance for Hound and those around him.

Nobles typically wanted the paws of the foxes for decoration, or the jaws of an alloygator, or the fine chain mesh pelts of petro-rabbits to make cushions. The rest of the carcass they carelessly discarded.

Of course, it was the job of the guide to harvest these trophies for them, and Hound, like the others of his profession, was both quick and skilled at these tasks. And if the rest of the animal happened to be slipped into his subspace? It was leaving the environment clean, so that further animals wouldn't be alerted to the presence of a kill and thus scared off.

That's what he told the nobles, anyway.

That's what they all told them.

In truth, subspace kept the energon and lubricants in the animals' bodies from coagulating or evaporating. They were carefully drained each night, after the nobles had returned home, into cubes.

The aluminum and steel and lead and zinc and oxides and all the other things that made up the cyber-animals were tasty, tasty things if you knew how to carefully dismantle the bodies and reassemble them into the treats that growing youngsters needed to help build their bodies.

There was stewardship involved, too; the gamekeepers talked to one another regularly, sharing counts and migration patterns, keeping the troops and pods and herds from being thinned too heavily. Like Earth's humans, they'd pushed a few too many species too close to the edge and had to back off, disallowing all hunting until they'd recovered.

No matter how much some idiot nobles wanted the privilege of killing the last titanium moosebot.

So the duck calls and the decoys and the sharp, flat crack of the humans' hunting guns didn't bother Hound at all. Neither did it bother him when Mirage-always more observant than most of his Towers hunting parties-arrived and parked next to him for a while, observing.

And if the presence of the elite racing car disturbed Sparkplug and his hunting friends when they trooped out of the muck, much later, they didn't show it.

"Surprised to see you here, Mirage," Sparkplug commented as he skinned out of his swampy garments and into the clean, dry ones he'd left with Hound.

The noble didn't transform, but the careless shrug was evident in his tone. "On Cybertron, Hound was the one who taught me how to best hunt. Your methods on Earth are similar; I was hoping to refine my skills."

"Well, our targets are probably a little smaller than what you're used to, but you're both welcome to join us any time," Sparkplug offered.

"As long as it doesn't offend you," Spike added, surprising Hound. Either the Autobots hadn't been as discreet in their dislike as he'd thought, or the humans were more observant than he'd believed.

"Whyever should it offend me?" Mirage asked. "You're assuming we were all able to afford fine metals and energon. I know for a fact that Hound made sure the beasts we killed never went to waste, among those who needed them."

Spike blinked wide eyes and looked at Hound.

"It's... not something nicer bots like to think about," Hound admitted, shifting uneasily on his wheels.

"Well," Sparkplug said, "here on Earth it's the norm for most hunters to eat what we kill. So you don't need to worry about offending _us_ with some good stories or unsavory habits."

"Thanks."

"Anytime. Thanks for taking us," the human said, opening the door and mounting up into the Jeep. "See anything interesting?"

"Well..." Hound replied, pulling out of the parking lot, with Mirage trailing behind. "You might want to try the north side next time; a lot more birds seemed to go there."

* * *

Author's Note: I blame this entirely on reading Hank Shaw's excellent book "Hunt, Gather, Cook."


	14. G1BVPrime: At A Crossroads Cafe

**At A Crossroads Cafe**  
by K. Stonham  
first released 4th December 2011

"So you just... run." Jack couldn't decide if that was stupid, or the most brilliant tactic he'd ever heard in regard to Cybertronians.

Sam shrugged, the college student picking up his glass of Coke and studying it. "Beats being a smear on the pavement," he said, and sipped.

"I find acting as a distraction works wonders," the third person at their table said. His curly auburn hair topped a face that was older than either Jack or Sam's, but shared an indefinable _something_ with them. That something, whatever it was, echoed at a booth in the diner's corner, where Miko sat chattering in rapid-fire beats with a girl with Indian features whose red hair was also pulled up into a pair of ponytails. At another table, Raf was sitting with his laptop open, playing a turn-based game with a younger boy whose hair matched that of Jack's tablemate.

"They must be a lot less homicidal where you're from," Sam commented. "Mine would just as happily wipe all us organics from the face of existence."

"Jesus," Spike said, eyes wide.

"They're... not that bad here," Jack said hesitantly. "Not that they're all warm and fuzzy, I mean," he said. "But mostly they don't care about us one way or the other. Mostly." He shot a quick glance out the diner's window, where four yellow cars sat suspiciously quiet next to one another. Probably communicating through comm lines, all of them. "This is so weird," he muttered, not for the first time.

"Tell me about it," Sam agreed.

Spike just shrugged.

The pair of them stared at him. "Don't tell me-" Sam started.

"Hang around with them," Spike said, nodding in the direction of the parking lot, "long enough and you learn to just go with it. I've time travelled, planet hopped, and been transferred in and out of an Autobot body." A wry smile crossed his face. "Dimension crossing was about the only thing left I _hadn't_ been subjected to."

"Died and met the ancient Primes?" Sam asked.

Spike stopped and stared at him.

"Okay, good, our timelines _probably_ aren't going to parallel," Sam said.

"_Died_?" Jack asked.

"It was for a good cause," Sam said flippantly. As they continued to stare at him, though, he sobered and looked away, his glass coming to rest on the tabletop. "I'd rather not talk about it," he confessed.

"What about relationships?" Jack asked. "I mean, there's this girl... what happens when she finds out? Or if it becomes a choice between them and her?"

"They were never hiding where I was from," Spike said. "Carly knew about them long before we ever met. Actually," he said, a smile quirking up his mouth, "she was more interested in Bumblebee than me that first time."

"Oh, good luck with that," Sam said with half a laugh. "Mikaela and I found out about them at about the same time. And, incidentally, Ratchet? Wouldn't know tact if it hit him with a brick."

"Sounds different than mine, then," said Spike.

"Not too different from mine," Jack disagreed. "Sierra doesn't know, though. And Arcee... just doesn't get it sometimes."

"Oh, I hear that," Spike agreed. "Carly's worse than Ratchet whenever she thinks I've been 'out teaching Daniel your adrenaline-junkie ways'." His fingers made air-quotes even as he looked over at the other table, checking on his son. "It's not my fault. Most of the time," he amended.

"Amen," Sam chorused. "Crazy stupid Decepticons stalking you at school and sticking their tongue probes down your throat..."

Jack stared at him.

"I had some stuff in my head they wanted," Sam explained. He tapped at the side of his skull with two fingers. "Still do," he muttered sourly.

"And this is what I'm getting myself into?" Jack wondered aloud, his voice containing a shade of panic.

Spike and Sam exchanged a look. "Maybe?" the teenager hazarded.

"The thing is," Spike said, elbows on the table as he leaned just slightly forward, "you have to ask yourself this: is it worth it?" He tilted his head to one side. "Is it, Jack?"

Jack sat still for a moment, thinking. Then he nodded. "Yes," he said, no doubt in his voice. "It is."

"Then trust them, and trust yourself."

"And if all else fails," Sam added with a small smile, "trust in Primus. He hasn't let any of us down yet."

* * *

**Author's Note:** A little fic spawned by the similarities of "reluctant hero" trope Jack to Sam. And Sam's similarities in other ways to Spike. I wanted to have these characters meet and have a little mutual complaint/support group type thing going. The only way to do that was a cross-dimensional nexus, which took the form of a cafe in the middle of nowhere/the desert. And I couldn't really leave out my beloved Transformers Animated, even though Spike's appearances there were merely homage, so Sari turned up, and whatever she and Miko are talking about over in that corner booth, I'm pretty sure I don't want to know. I think I'd be scared...


	15. G1 AU: Siamese in Black and White

**Siamese in Black and White**  
by K. Stonham  
first released 13th December 2011

They know what they are.

They also know that most others won't understand, won't _believe_ what they are. The humans have terms for a shattered mind: schizophrenia, multiple personality disorder, half a dozen more. Cybertronian medicine is, in this way, very similar to Earth's.

There is no room, everyone knows, in a single cranium for more than a single processor.

To be fair, almost all the time this belief is correct.

With Prowl-and-Jazz, it is not.

Ratchet knows, and his impressive tirade at their creators'... _experimentation_ had been one of the ones Jazz committed to long-term data storage for future reference.

Optimus knows, and, gentle soul that he is at his core, he is uncomfortable with the notion. Most of the time, he manages to ignore it, and address them individually.

When Wheeljack (who does NOT know about their advanced dual processors, and the thought of him knowing makes them both shudder at the paths the mad inventor's CPU might subsequently go down) invents a mod he calls a "sorcelling unit," which allows one to change appearance, they grab at the chance.

Ratchet grumbles while installing it, but even he can see the queasiness in Optimus' optics when he looks at the two-in-one, and knows this is the best way to nip the discomfort in the bud. They are not a combiner, where multiple individual minds and bodies are combined into one. Neither are they an inverse combiner, where one body can split into smaller units, each controlled by the whole.

Jazz-and-Prowl are two minds, complementary, in one body.

They all know, at this point, that the war will be neither quick nor easy, and anything that gives the Prime an advantage (or lack of disadvantage, Prowl points out) is something to be grabbed at.

Prowl's identity is long-established; Jazz is the one who gets to design a new appearance and suddenly burst onto the Autobot scene with a display of _stylish_ martial skills. He is swiftly accepted onto the team and assigned as the head of the new Special Operations division.

Ironhide, they think, suspects. Red Alert, of course, has cameras _everywhere_ and had to be told in advance that Jazz is a cover for Prowl. Which isn't quite right, but it's an excuse the Security Director will accept.

No one else believes that the flamboyant third-in-command and stoic second-in-command have much in common, let alone a body.

Privately, they find this amusing.

Optimus can believe the polite fiction they've given him, and if anyone else thinks it odd that Prowl and Jazz are never seen together, well, their personality clash is a convenient excuse for why the rest of the command team _obviously_ strove to keep them apart.

And if, on the rare occasion they are captured by the Decepticons, they happen to be interrogated... well, Jazz can shove sensitive information into Prowl's CPU, which will shut down until needed. And Prowl can do the same to Jazz.

Soundwave cannot dredge you for what you do not know. It makes Jazz laugh and laugh.

Ratchet worries about them, they know. Thinks that it's not healthy for two perfectly sound processors (he only grants them this soundness when he's feeling particularly charitable) to each live only a half-life.

If he ever comes after them to separate them, however, he knows they'll kill him rather than suffer living alone, in silence, a single mind in each body.

They've talked about it. They have, long and serious discussions.

And in the end they are Prowl-and-Jazz, and Jazz-and-Prowl, and no matter what exigencies war has forced them to resort to...

This is who, and what, they are.

Pity the person who sees, and separates, them.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I've had a vague idea in the back of my head for a while that Prowl and Jazz are such opposites, in personality, in coloration, in _everything_, that together they add up to one person. And when I mentioned it to people at Botcon this year, they wanted me to write it. Thing is, though, sometimes an idea isn't enough to support a longer story. So here the idea is in a short, introspective piece. Sorcelling is, of course, taken from Taralynden's "Story of a Lifetime." As for the rest, if anyone wants to springboard from this and use the premise of this story, let me know! Because I'd love to see what someone else could do with it.


	16. G1: Bad Hair Day

**Bad Hair Day**  
by K. Stonham  
first released 30th July 2012

Sideswipe hated Decepticons.

He particularly hated them after battles that lasted endless hours. Battles that landed his brother and friends in pieces. Battles when the 'Cons got the better end of things. Why Megatron wanted black opals, Sideswipe did not know. He did not want to know. Knowing would involve asking Perceptor, which would result in an hours-long lecture, which Sideswipe was in no mood for, having just gotten off a triple shift due to the sheer number of mecha in the med bay.

His last thought, as Sideswipe collapsed on his berth and fell into exhausted recharge, was that he really, really hated Decepticons.

So deep was his recharge that he did not wake when the door to his and Sunny's quarters slid open a few hours later. Did not, in fact, stir as someone crept up to his berth. Didn't even twitch as something cool and wet was dribbled onto his helm.

* * *

Groggy from an all-nighter piecing aliens back together, Carly stumbled into the empty Rec Room, heading directly toward the coffee machine in the human corner. Black restorative nirvana called her name. She _would_ have some. Woe betide any man or mecha who stood in her way.

She was seriously contemplating taking Prowl up on his offer of quarters in the Ark. There was no way she was fit to drive back to her parents' place right now.

Her path crossed with Sideswipe as the red warrior headed for his own dispenser of energizing brew. They greeted one another with the barest of mumbles.

_Oh, God, coffee. Thank you, God, for coffee._

Slumped at the table, it took Carly until her second refill to actually look at Sideswipe and focus. She blinked.

"New... hairdo?" she tried out, not sure if she was imagining things or not.

"Huh?"

"Um. Your helm," Carly managed, with a gesture at her own head. "Bad hair day?"

Sideswipe just looked at her, with the air of one who wasn't sure if he was being put on or not, then slowly lifted his hand to his head.

"Gyaah!" He jerked his hand away, optics now wide. A lone floppy strand of pasta clung wetly to his hand.

"Oh," said Carly. "Not just my imagination then."

"What- what-?"

Carly sipped at her coffee again. "So who'd you piss off this time?"

Sideswipe clawed at his helm. "No one!" Spaghetti flew everywhere.

The click of a camera from one of the ventilation ducts froze both of them.

Sideswipe moved first, lunging for the grill and tearing it aside. Carly caught a flash of red eyes and gray-black metal skin as the cybercat evaded Sideswipe's grab and took off running. "Red Alert!" She pressed her comm button. "Ravage is in the vents!"

With a roar of rage, Sideswipe pulled his blaster from subspace and tore out of the room, following the sound of metal feet against metal ducts.

Glue-coated spaghetti littered his trail. Carly eyed it, then decided that her best bet was to report the incident to Prowl. He could find whoever had done it and assign them cleanup.

And while that was going on, she was going to find Sparkplug and take him up on his offer of the use of the Witwicky's guest bed.

* * *

**Author's Note:** So, the Flesh_and_Steel community on LiveJournal is doing a prompt party. Tiamat1972 posted this:

_Carly/Sideswipe/Bad Hair Day_

_*bonus points if Sideswipe is the one having the bad hair day*_

And I just couldn't resist.


End file.
